


Ashes in Your Hands

by Antheas_Blackberry



Series: The Grief Inside Your Bones [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions are Complicated, Greg Lestrade's siblings - Freeform, Greg is an orphan, Grief, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Valentine's Day, issues relating to sexuality and religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-15 04:06:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13605189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: Greg doesn't mean to completely forget about Valentine's Day, but he does.  He's got other things on his mind.





	1. Central London, Mycroft's office. . .

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't an overly fluffy piece, and for that I do apologise. I'm working on a backstory for this series, if anyone is interested.

It was Valentine's Day and Mycroft was sat in his office alone. It had just gone lunch time and normally by now he was enjoying a mid-week lunch with Greg.

They always met at Mycroft's office, unless Mycroft had an urgent meeting or Greg had been waylaid by a case, court, or Sherlock. However, on this crisp winter day there had been no texts or phone calls indicating a delay or cancellation.

Mycroft's thoughts flitted between worry, anger, and dismay. It didn't really matter that it was Valentine's Day, but more that his usually trustworthy partner had not arrived at his usual time. 

He began to rationalise; Greg surely was distracted by paperwork or that irritating Sergeant Donovan. Mycroft considered checking CCTV footage but restrained himself from doing so. It was only a few minutes past the time of their rendezvous. In an effort to keep from checking on his partner, he began to pace instead.


	2. In nearby Mayfair. . .

Greg sat in his car alone. He was frustrated and late for lunch with Mycroft, which certainly didn't improve his irritation.

_Why had he done it? Why had he gone?_

Guilt. It was always guilt.

And at this time of year he was the most susceptible to it. 

He thumped the steering wheel in exasperation and then started the car. Better go and face the music.

As he drove, he thought about the shame and anger he felt towards himself by getting in this position in the first place. He sighed heavily.

It was one of those no-win situations; where he was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. Things would certainly be different if his mother was still alive- always the gatekeeper and the peacemaker between him and his sister.

And now it was just him and his sister and they couldn't have a normal conversation without it ending in an argument, never mind a civil conversation about his sexuality. And that certainly wasn't a discussion they would be having any time soon. Now that his nieces were older he wondered what his younger sibling told them- if anything.

Greg stopped at a traffic light and ran a hand through his hair in irritation. His hand came back mottled with dark grey ash as dark as his mood; the residue was evident across his hand and was surely smudged across his face.

"Fuck," he mumbled, as the light turned green.

By the time he arrived at Mycroft's office, he was nowhere nearer a resolution of the issues at hand and he then realised he had never texted Mycroft letting him know he would be late. This day was turning out to be a right rotter, he thought miserably.

The first thing Greg did before heading to Mycroft's office was to duck into the toilet. Looking at his appearance in the mirror, he could see that what was once a small smudge on his forehead was now smeared elaborately across his brow. He turned the taps on, splashed water on his face and then washed his hands. Taking a final look in the mirror he was shocked to see how drained he looked. With a weary sigh, he opened the door and headed down the hallway.

When Greg arrived, Anthea gestured him towards the door with a wave, keeping her face neutral. Once Greg was inside, she winced. She turned, picked up her bag, and left for lunch. There was little she could do, and she didn't want to be around in case there was an argument.

Mycroft had been pacing when his mobile buzzed indicating Greg's arrival. He took a breath; Greg had been accidentally delayed, nothing more. He heard Greg come in, and he turned around.

"I'm so sorry . . .I meant to text, it just slipped my mind," Greg began. 

As he spoke, Mycroft took in Greg's appearance, deducing what had kept him. It didn't take a genius to notice the missed bit of smudged ash at Greg's hairline or the stain on the cuff of his sleeve. There were also uneven creases in his trousers, as if he had been kneeling. The dust particles on his knees confirmed it. And if Mycroft wasn't mistaken (he wasn't) Greg's eyes were slightly red-rimmed as if he had been rubbing at them or worse, crying.

Mycroft immediately knew where Greg had been, why he had been delayed, and also what the day was- not just Valentine's Day, but Ash Wednesday. 

All of the irritation and frustration Mycroft had been feeling faded away. He crossed the room, closing the distance between him and Greg. He stopped before the older man, seeing defeat written across his features. He knew what had to be done.

Mycroft reached out and pulled Greg into a hug. While Greg was normally the more demonstrative of the pair, Mycroft recognised that this was what his partner needed right now.

At first, Mycroft felt Greg tense, but he quickly relaxed into the embrace. Soon, he was holding on to Mycroft as if he were a lifeline, and without him as an anchor, he would drown.

Greg found himself reluctant to let go, and Mycroft sensed this as well. He didn't say anything; he merely waited until Greg was ready.

As they stood there, Mycroft breathed in Greg's scent; cologne, ash, and the hint of incense- perhaps there had been a funeral Mass said earlier that morning, he thought to himself. He hoped Greg was getting some comfort from the hug, just as he was.

Reluctantly, Greg extricated himself from the embrace. Mycroft could see tears in the corners of his partner's eyes and he frowned at the sight. Silently, Mycroft led Greg to the sofa, so they could sit down.

"Would you like some tea?" Mycroft asked gently.

Greg nodded and rubbed at his eyes and face. He felt shattered, exhausted.

Mycroft removed his handkerchief from his pocket and offered it over. Greg took it and wiped at his eyes again and then blew his nose.

"Sorry," Greg murmured. 

"There's no reason to apologise," Mycroft replied. While Greg had been composing himself, he had texted for tea and lunch.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Mycroft paused a moment. "It is fine if you would rather not, Gregory. However, I do believe that in this case you may benefit from sharing the burden."

There was a knock at the door and Mycroft rose from the sofa and headed to the door, returning with a tray laden with tea, sandwiches and scones. 

Mycroft began to serve the tea and as he did, Greg began to talk. 

"It was another stupid argument with my sister, as I'm sure you've guessed," Greg paused, deep in thought, and accepted the cup of tea Mycroft had prepared for him.

"No, it wasn't even an argument, because an argument would mean two parties are involved in it. She made a passive aggressive comment about Facetiming the girls and in the same breath about Mass attendance and Ash Wednesday. She made it seem like I had to prove I was going to Mass just to talk to my bloody nieces!"

Greg sighed angrily and then took a sip of his tea, which was of course perfect. Mycroft remained silent.

When Greg began to speak again, his tone had changed.

"I know this time of year is hard on her; it's not a cake walk for me either and I think she forgets that sometimes." He sounded wistful, as if he had recalled a fond childhood memory of the pair of them.

He paused again for a moment.

"And sometimes I think she does it to punish me because I wasn't there," Greg added, his voice a hoarse whisper. He blinked hard, pushing back the tears.

Mycroft heard the unspoken statement in there as well and wondered if Greg harboured some sort of resentment of their relationship and the strange dynamic between his partner and his sister. He supposed some people would say the same about his family, Mycroft considered thoughtfully.

Greg drank some more tea, and then continued.

"In all honesty, I don't even know why I went. I haven't gone in years. What did she expect, a fucking selfie of me in the pew with ashes on my forehead?" Greg's tone was now bitter and angry.

Mycroft finally spoke. "Perhaps you were seeking forgiveness?"

Greg tried to shrug it off, but Mycroft's words hit home. 

"I tried that before and it didn't work then," Greg snapped bitterly.

Mycroft looked puzzled. He put down his teacup.

"I am afraid I don't understand."

Greg shifted his position to that he was leaning forward, his elbows and forearms resting on his thighs.

"After it all happened, after she died, the guilt and the grief were insurmountable. I didn't know what to do." Greg closed his eyes.

"I finally went to confession; one of those face to face ones they do now. I thought it might help. The problem was, that the priest told me, was that God had forgiven me, but that I needed to forgive myself." Greg's voice caught at the end and tears ran down his face.

"Oh my dear," Mycroft said softly. He reached over for Greg's hand.

Greg fumbled for Mycroft's handkerchief with his other hand and wiped his eyes.

"Perhaps this priest was correct?" Mycroft speculated hesitantly. He didn't let go of Greg's hand.

Greg surprised him by chuckling.

"Yeah, he probably was," Greg said, sniffling, his expression now thoughtful. 

"He was right about everything else."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

Greg managed a weak smile. "That Jesus doesn't give a shit if you're gay, bi, transsexual, or anything else. Just treat people decently, that's what matters."

Mycroft looked at him in surprise.

Greg shrugged. "Jesuits are good blokes," he said. "Well, the ones I've met, at any rate." He paused, thoughtful once again.

"And not always bad on the eyes, either," Greg laughed.

Mycroft joined in, but it didn't quite sound like his normal laugh.

Greg suddenly realised that with his heightened emotions, that his actions might have hurt Mycroft. He squeezed Mycroft's hand.

"I'm sorry, love. I didn't take your feelings into account in all of this. I hope I didn't hurt you. You know I love you with all my heart."

Greg leaned forward and pulled Mycroft into a gentle kiss.

When they finally broke apart, Mycroft used it as an excuse to rub the smudge of ash away from Greg's hairline. Greg pulled a face at missing a spot, but Mycroft waved it away. 

"My feelings are irrelevant here, Gregory. I want you to feel that you can receive comfort in any way that makes you feel better. It pains me to see how torn up this entire situation has made you," Mycroft began. It was true; for several years now, Mycroft had watched Greg experience agonising grief over the loss of his mother in addition to the horrific way his sister treated him.

"You should be able to have a relationship with your nieces that is not dependant on your relationship with God, or if you even choose to have one at all. That should be your choice and your choice alone."

Greg picked up his teacup and drained the remainder, taking his time before responding. 

"It was easier. . . before. I was married to a woman and no one questioned my beliefs or my sexuality. Not that I ever pretended that I was anything that I'm not, but you're certainly perceived differently. . .. "He paused, thoughtful.

"And now, in all honesty it doesn't really come up in my thoughts at all. I'm just me. It doesn't impact my daily life at all until this time of year when I'm caught between who I am and who my sister expects me to be." He sighed heavily.

"And those two aren't the same person, not anymore. I'm not sure they ever were."


	3. Later that evening. . .

Greg had lit a fire and he and Mycroft were sitting comfortably together watching the flames and the wood crackle and pop. 

"I'm sorry this wasn't a great Valentine's Day," Greg said, out of the blue.

Mycroft turned to him. "I don't need the calendar or Hallmark to tell me when it's appropriate to shower you with love and affection, my dear." He paused and smiled. "That is every day."

"Thanks for listening today. It helped to talk to you, you were right." Greg reached over for Mycroft's hand and took it in his own.

"I am always here to listen, my dear." Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand in reassurance.

Greg was quiet for a moment. Now that his emotions weren't so heightened, maybe he could talk to Mycroft more about how he was feeling, especially when his sister opened up old wounds. 

"I know, love. And I love you for it. Happy Valentine's Day, Mycroft."

"Happy Valentine's Day, Gregory."


	4. Lent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Lavender_and_Vanilla suggested that I give up coffee for Lent. That's hilarious and definitely not happening (been there, done that, got the tshirt). That doesn't mean Greg can't.

The next morning Mycroft awoke to Greg carrying in a breakfast tray. Yawning, Mycroft pushed himself upright. 

Smiling cheerily, Greg handed over a cup of tea to Mycroft. "Morning, love," he said, setting the tray down.

Mycroft took a sip of the perfectly prepared tea and sighted contentedly. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Greg shrugged and sat down on the bed beside Mycroft. "I wanted to make up for yesterday." He took a sip of his own beverage.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You're drinking tea," he stated.

Greg looked down at his cup as if to confirm it. "Yeah."

"Are we out of coffee?" Mycroft knew Greg relished and relied upon his morning cup of coffee, not to mention any subsequent cups he had at Scotland Yard or Starbucks or any other establishment he might come across during the day.

"No, we've plenty of coffee," Greg replied.

Mycroft leaned forward to peer at his partner. "Then why are you drinking tea?"

Embarrassed, Greg ran a hand through his hair, giving a muttered response. "Gave it up for Lent."

Mycroft raised both eyebrows. "Did you now?"

Greg sipped his tea and avoided looking at Mycroft for a long moment.

"Force of habit," he finally said, shrugging a shoulder.

"I see." Mycroft frowned.

"What?" Greg demanded.

"Heaven help Scotland Yard if you're not properly caffeinated," Mycroft mused.

Relieved that Mycroft wasn't angry, he laughed heartily, taking care not to spill his drink.

"You're probably right, love," Greg said, and leaned over to properly start his day with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to anyone who recognises the song the title comes from.


End file.
